These Letters I Write

They have sung my praises for this great invention, named me scholar and sage over and again. It will change our lives, they tell me, allow us to record things that would otherwise have been lost, should our memories fail.

Yet, they are not perfect, these letters. Even I can see it… there are inconsistencies that make them difficult to use and they are hard to learn. The children especially have trouble.

I could revise them; it would not be an overly great task. Now that I have experience, I can see where I went wrong, that writing is not simply written speech – it is more, and less all at once.

Yes, I could revise them. However, each time I try to do just that, something stops me. A feeling that it is not for me to do, that another is meant to take on that task. It is a feeling I can not overcome, even as I sit with my quill poised in my hand.
A commotion reaches my ears, so loud that it causes me to drop the quill. My door flies open to reveal a young and very excited elf standing there.

“My Lord Rúmil!” he cries. “A son has been born to King Finwë!”

I jump up, a smile spreading over my face, the quill forgotten in the wake of this glorious news.

“That is wonderful!” I cry, we had all hoped for the King to have an heir. “Has he been named?”

“Aye,” the Elf replies. “His name is Fëanor.”

~The End~

Yes, Rúmil - just not the one I usually write about! *Grins*

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